Chaos At The Castle (Book Six)

by Craig Halloran

  “That’s not going to get you any water, Barton. You’ll have to do better than that.”

  Barton folded his arms over his chest. “Make the water first, Wizard.”

  The shadow the giant cast when he looked up at him gave Fogle little comfort. It made him feel insignificant. He had once been the cockiest mage in the City of Three, and now he was a rattled mess. It made him angry. He summoned his energy, filling his lungs with power.

  “ANSWER ME, GIANT! OR DRINK YOU WILL NOT!”

  Barton took a step back, covering his face. Peeking through his forearms, disfigured face bunched up, he said, “Yes! Yes! I will tell! I will tell!”

  That felt good!

  Fogle hadn’t often used the Wizards Voice before, always feeling it was more show than effect.

  I’m going to have to use that more often.

  “OUT WITH IT!”

  Barton’s lips tightened.

  “BARTON…”

  “Ah, Blackie will take her to the giants’ castle.” He lowered his voice. “Or to his lair. Many bones there. Many bones of the dead.”

  The way Barton said it didn’t seem genuine.

  “ARE YOU LYING, GIANT? I DON’T LIKE LIARS!”

  Barton covered his face again. “No bones! No bones! Just the castle. Blackie takes people to the castle, and they never leave there. Impossible.”

  “You will take me there then.” The power in his voice was gone.

  “No! Barton will not go back there. You’ll go yourself. Now make my water. My throat hurts.”

  Fogle rubbed his throat. It felt like he’d swallowed a mouthful of dirt now. “Hold out your hands and make a cup,” he managed in a dry voice.

  Waving his hand over his water skin, he summoned the spell. “Decanterous! Everless! Fill!” He tipped the water skin over. Clear liquid poured out like a rushing spring.

  Barton sucked up a dozen handfuls, and Fogle, head riddled with guilt, thoughts only on Cass, drank until his throat no longer burned. He capped the water skin.

  “Feel better now?”

  “Much.” Barton patted his stomach. It rumbled like a giant bullfrog. “Now make food.”

  Fogle laughed. “Water will have to do for now. Plenty of that. If you want food, you’ll have to hunt it yourself.”

  “Alright.” Barton wandered off.

  “Barton!”

  The giant didn’t slow.

  “Barton, where are you going?”

  Barton stopped and turned. “To find the doggie and get my toys.”

  “What about Cass? You need to help me go and find Cass!”

  “She isn’t going anywhere. Barton not going back there, but you help Barton find the doggy and the toys, I’ll take you there.” His smile was wide and creepy. “I promise.”

  ***

  They walked, suns down to suns up, resting little in between.

  Fogle, even with all the water, was exhausted, his legs shaking with every step. He’d given up on trying to convince Barton to go back. The little giant wouldn’t listen. And Fogle didn’t believe all of what Barton said about the castle and Cass being there and safe. He remembered those citrine eyes of the dragon. They had a murderous intent. Is she dead?

  He stumbled and fell to his knees.

  “Get up, Wizard.”

  Fogle didn’t move. Instead, he lay staring into the sky, hoping to see a black dragon pass by. I deserve to die here. Bake my flesh, Bish. I’ll make a fine meal for the buzzards of this lousy world.

  Barton kept on walking.

  CHAPTER 47

  Pain. It was all that remained of Venir’s life. His burning skin looked like raw meat on his back, and there was little left to be seen of his tattoo. Tuuth had whipped him until the rawhide was soaked with blood. Venir had fought the first few hours, making derogatory comments about the orc and his kind.

  “That’s a nice lash. Did you borrow it from your mother?”

  Wupash!

  “What’s it like being an orc? Stinking and stupid all the time?”

  Wupash!

  “Is your arm getting tired yet? My back’s just getting warmed up!”

  Wupash!

  “Bone! That’s feels good!

  Wupash!

  “Say, Tuuth, don’t they think you can do anything harder than this?”

  Wupash!

  “If I survive this, I’m going to skin your hide and make a whip out of you!”

  Wupash!

  It had gone on like that, back and forth, until Venir couldn’t say a word, or remember his name. Unable to wake him after the first day, they had dragged him off to his cell, only to drag him back out again and hitch him to the post. That was three days ago.

  Wupash!

  He remembered watching the Royal Riders stripped of their armor, mutilated, tortured, buried and burning. He saw how the underlings celebrated their handiwork. They’d strolled inside the fort, arm in arm, mugs raised high and chanting strange sounds that would make hound dogs cry. It all made Venir sick. What he could remember of it.

  Still, some men survived. Chained and cuffed from the neck to ankles, they served, performing one menial task after the other. Venir caught glimpses of it here and there, but his memories faded until he worked again to suffer another tortuous day.

  Now, lying face down in the slime of his cell, he stirred. It was dark, but a pool of yellow light shone through the door. He tried to sit up. Something was on his back, picking at it.

  “Wha―?” he mumbled, forcing himself up.

  He heard a buzz.

  A sharp stabbing pain shot through his back to his chest.

  He slammed his mangled back into the moldy wall.

  Something crunched and squished.

  A sliver of fear raced through him. His blood coursed behind his ears. Something was feeding on him. Something had chewed up his legs, now it felt like bugs were making a nest in his back.

  “Nnn—”

  He slammed his back into the wall again. Bright spots of light burst in his eyes, leaving him woozy. He sagged down, slumping to the floor.

  “Venir.”

  His eyes popped open, searching.

  “Venir.”

  Somewhere, a tiny voice was speaking to him.

  “Lie still, you idiot, and stop squishing the bugs. They’re healing you.”

  “Slim?”

  “Quiet.”

  He felt tiny insect legs crawling over his shoulder to his ear.

  “Yes, it’s Slim, and I’m getting you patched up… again.”

  Something crawled off his shoulder and stood before him. It was an insect, like a mantis, but mostly had Slim’s face, except brownish green and bug-eyed.

  “Uh…”

  “Just be still, you big fool!” Slim put his insect arm to his face. “This wouldn’t be so bad if you weren’t so stubborn. As soon as that white orc whips you, pretend to pass out. Stop running your mouth. Bish, you’ve got a lot of nerve calling him stupid and stubborn. You should be dead already, you fool, but I’ve been having the bugs patch you up. You heal fast. Very fast.”

  A bug the size of Venir’s finger that looked like part cricket, part spider scurried up to Slim’s mantis-like form. Its antenna twitched back and forth in short furious motions, then it scurried away.

  “Listen, you big lout: you smash any more of them, they’re leaving, so just lie there and be still. I can’t keep you alive forever, you know.”

  “Water.”

  Motioning to a stone bowl that was tipped over, Slim shook his head. “You already drank it. You don’t remember, do you?”

  “Just get out of here, Slim. Escape, tell others. There’s nothing more you can do here. If I die here, then I die here. Enough have died here already. You don’t need to die too.”

  “That’s a great idea, but the safest place right now is here, under the enemy’s nose. I’ve been keeping a look out. More underlings have come since we rode in here, and they talk as if the City of Bone has fallen. They talk as if
they’ve conquered the world, Venir.” Slim blinked his glowing bug eyes. “I’ve seen it pretty bad on Bish before, but this? I’ve never seen it this bad, but something’s got to happen. It just can’t keep going like this. It can’t.”

  Venir never figured Slim’s age, but for all he knew, he was as old as Mood. As for the underlings, he’d never seen them with such an upper hand before either. Usually, he’d been able to face them with the mystic armament when things got bad, but now it was gone. Perhaps the underlings had it. If I could wrap my paws around Brool’s handle one last time! Bone!

  “Just do what you can and go, Slim. It’s like you said, ‘Bish Happens.’”

  “I did say that, didn’t I? Huh, that’s a good one.” He scurried over Venir’s shoulder and spoke in his ear. “Now you just be still while I have the bugs stitch you up. And remember, keep your mouth closed tomorrow. You’re better off dying digging holes than being whipped to death, I’d figure. Of course, I’m a lot smarter than you.”

  “Thanks, Slim—Yeouch!”

  It felt like something crawled into his spine.

  “Be still, I say! It’s going to hurt, you know. Yesterday you slept right through it, leaving me wondering if you were getting better or worse.”

  “Worse.” Venir bit his lip. Helpless, he lay there listening to Slim guiding the creatures all over his back. “Don’t you have any of that blue ointment?”

  “Heh, the underlings would sniff me out in a second if I used that. I’ve got it hidden. Besides, I’m saving the good stuff for me.”

  “Great…” Venir said just before dozing off.

  ***

  Slim the Healer kept his astonishment to himself. Venir should have been dead. The man’s back was a grotesque mat of blood and skin. The first time he saw it, he felt his own skin turn inside out. Yet somehow, Venir had prevailed.

  The bugs scurried over Venir’s back, attacking the puss that seeped through the pores. If he gets the fever, he will be dead. If he did, there was no way of helping the man, no way at all. Still, it was a mystery. What kept Venir together this long? One by one, the bugs pushed the flaps of skin back into place and sealed them up with a thick gummy spit.

  “Aside from all the blood, you don’t look half bad,” he said, dusting his insect hands off. “I can even see the tattoo. ‘V’. Hmmm, what did that drunken fool put it on there for? What was her name? Vorla? Ah, time to crawl back into my hole. Sleep well, Venir, and don’t run your mouth tomorrow.”

  Venir snored.

  “That might be a good thing.”

  On his six insect legs, he made his way from Venir’s cell and followed the other bugs into a small hole they had bored into the interior of the fort’s wall. Squeezing through the dark and narrow path, he popped into a hollowed-out room inside the massive log from the Great Forest of Bish, big enough for several men. Exhausted, he reverted back to his normal form and stretched out in the dim green light provided by the Elga Bugs from the glowing sacks on their bellies.

  Resting the best he could, he couldn’t help but worry―as he had on all the previous nights―that Venir would not return alive.

  “How much will the underlings put up with, and how much more can he take?” Closing his eyes, he whisked his hand, and the Elga bug lights went dim.

  If Venir’s no longer The Darkslayer, then who is?

  CHAPTER 48

  Castle Almen was no longer under siege. It was overtaken. Lord Almen sat on the marbled tile floor, arms shackled behind his back, and sighed. A corpse of one of his prized Shadow Sentries lay dead at his side, his mesh mask melted to his face. The rest of the room, his throne room, was in good order. But now, where there had been one high-backed chair of mahogany wood trimmed in the finest metal and jewels sat two. Both were empty at the moment.

  His stomach rumbled as he shifted on the floor. He’d been fed, but very little, and he was stripped down to his shirt and trousers. All of his rings and baubles were gone. Closing his eyes and leaning back, the same thought raced through his mind.

  How could I let this happen?

  He rolled his shoulder and cracked his neck side to side. Something scurried out of the corner of the room. A spider, big as a dog and quick as a cat, on silent legs crawled over towards him. Another nearly his size dropped from the ceiling, jaws opening and closing. They were the underlings’ watch dogs. Creepy things. Hairy black creatures with white stripes and venomous teeth that he’d seen suck the marrow from his own nephew’s bones two days hence. The revolting sound still rang inside his head. The sucking. The screaming. The anguish. For the most part, Lord Almen delivered quick and silent deaths, but the underlings enjoyed the torment at another level. They delighted in the suffering of others.

  He remained still, beads of sweat dripping from his nose onto the floor. A minute passed, then two before the spiders backed away and curled up out of sight.

  How did I let this happen?

  Until now, there had never been a day when Lord Almen hadn’t felt in control, but other things had led to his fall. Melegal had undone him. Sefron had betrayed him. Most men dared not look him in the eye, nor did they have the courage to attack him. But Melegal had. As for Sefron, the man’s own lust and fear of the underlings clearly led to his betrayal. However, Lord Almen could not imagine why Melegal had tried to kill him. He raced through that day. What had happened before Melegal stabbed him? Had Melegal done it on his own? Certainly he’d wanted to. Or had Leezir the Slerg pulled off a suggestion? Hmmm…

  Lord Almen thought through it until his lids became heavy and he drifted into sleep.

  Clap!

  His head snapped up.

  “Almen,” a silver-eyed underling named Verbard said, “rise up.”

  He nodded.

  The underling sat on one of the thrones, his golden-eyed brother, Catten, at his side. Between them stood another creature, a hulking black humanoid that reminded him of a panther. The underlings’ eyes pierced him as he rose up to stand tall. With a single word, he felt one or the other could destroy him. He’d dealt with underlings before, but not like this. The cleric Oran had been formidable, but the might of these two? Another scale. No, these two had made his finest magi look like carnival enchanters: leaving one in a pile of ashes, the other with a gaping hole in his chest.

  “The time has come to negotiate,” Verbard said.

  “With?” Almen replied.

  Catten tapped his fingernails on the arm rest, a callous look on his face.

  Verbard took a deep draw through his nose.

  “Do you smell that, Almen? The delicious scent, so pungent, so sweet? A dead child? A dead wife, perhaps?” Verbard rubbed the rat-like fur under his chin.

  It wasn’t what Lord Almen smelled that bothered him so much as what he didn’t smell. His castle had always been filled with fresh flowers and the burning of scented candles, oils and such. Now, the beauty of his Castle―that he and Lorda took so much pride in―was gone. The gardens trampled and smeared in blood. Many of his men buried in them. As for Lorda, he had no idea if she lived or was dead, but the Keep had fallen a day later, after the rest of the castle fell. He could only presume she was dead. It was the best way to avoid manipulation.

  “I smell death. Decay. What else is there?”

  “More, much, much more.” Verbard floated off his chair and right past him. “Come. I’ll show you.”

  Lord Almen glanced at Catten and the Vicious. The underling filled his goblet with a bottle of wine, and the Vicious fell a half-step behind him and shoved him forward. He limped but kept up as Verbard made his way through Castle Almen as if it were his. Underlings were posted throughout the castle, their countenances evil and alert.

  Grimacing, he followed Verbard into the keep, taking the stairs that led onto the roof. He was panting when he reached the top, rubbing the bandage on his leg where he’d been stabbed at the battle in the chamber.

  Verbard floated still higher in the air, robes billowing, turning towards him. Can you
see it? Can you smell it?

  He heard it in his mind.

  He did see it and smell it. Black smoke was rolling up over the great wall of the City of Bone, not on the inside but on the outside. Eyes watering, he covered his nose.

  Play along, Almen. Play along.

  Walking across the top of the keep and stepping into a small tower that led to its highest point, he got his first glimpse over the wall in years.

  Underlings. Legions of them.

  They were everywhere. It wasn’t just underlings either, but giant spiders and strange creatures he’d never seen before, tossing one dead human onto one flaming pyre after the other. His fingertips went numb.

  He looked Lord Verbard in the eye. “Would you have me negotiate the terms of surrender for the City of Bone?”

  “Serve us well, Lord Almen. You and a select few of your choosing can be our liaisons.”

  Lord Almen had made deals with the underlings before. He’d supplied Oran with people for various poisons, potions and such. He’d even conspired with others to see the fall of Outpost Thirty-One. It had led to his rise from the 6th house in the City of Bone to the 3rd. But now, in hindsight, it seemed that move might also have led to this.

  “I welcome the opportunity.” He bowed. “How may I assist?”

  “We just need to know which Castles need to fall first. You see, with the Keys, we can infiltrate any of them and slaughter them all. But ‘Which falls first?’ is the question.”

  Lord Almen wanted to laugh. I can send the underlings to do my bidding for me! But to what end?

  “After that, you can negotiate with the weaker houses and on down. Once we control them, then we control everything.”

  “I see, Lord Verbard. And once they surrender, what are your plans for them? Slaughter? Slavery? A mass exodus into the Outland?”

  “Those are excellent suggestions and most likely a great deal for them all, but you shouldn’t worry about that. Not for your own sake.”

  Verbard pointed at Almen’s chest and hissed.

  “No, you should just worry about yourself.”